Life As A Paper Doll
by Cold Fire Phoenix
Summary: What, exactly, does a shinigami think when it's on the job?


**Disclaimer:**  Rumiko Takahashi.  The only thing you need to know in regard to the creator and thus owner of Inuyasha.  Pleased?

CFP:  I've posted this on a forum I'm, well, that I'm in.  Based on the anime episode in which the gang faces off against the Shikigami the twin mikos use (Boton and her sister) while hunting down the dark miko.  The entire thing was too hilarious, and then a thought struck – What would this be like in the eyes of the paper dolls themselves?  A somewhat loose interpretation on my part followed, and I wrote this pointless. . . Piece of writing.  Heh.  Enjoy this. . . Pointless One Shot.  

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**Life As A Paper Doll**

It didn't know how it had come into existence.  At first, it didn't even know why.  All it knew was darkness, and in the darkness, it knew the others.  The others like it.  There were many, countless if it had known what counting was.  There was no concept of numbers, and thus. . . 

For it there was no concept of time.  Everything was now, and now was all encompassing.  The artificial life gifted by magic gave it no consciousness exceeding a willingness to obey whatsoever its creator asked of it.  Among the many figures that perfectly reflected its own image, there existed a brotherhood.  A sisterhood.  A hive mentality. 

One that said nothing was too costly when the creators asked.  There was no task too small, too large, or too impossible.  Not that they would have known.  They all sat undisturbed in their darkness, waiting for something.  For anything.  For the now of action. 

Then. . . 

Then there was light. 

With the light came the noise, and with the noise the hands.  It was lifted with the others, lifted and held while brief instruction flooded their insignificant bodies.  _Go, the silent voice ordered, __Go attack. _

To it, there was a word more that was infused with an image. _ Hair.  A gigantic white beast appeared somehow to its sightless, hidden eyes.  It knew the mission.  It accepted without question.  It lacked the capacity to deny. _

The others knew of its responsibility.  They became decoys, protectors of it and another.  The fellow in missions.  They moved in tandem to their directed targets on ridiculously short legs.  As they went, the others fell in brutal massacres.  The others were trod upon, silent cries echoing in the ears of it and the fellow. 

It felt nothing.  It knew no emotion.  It knew only the mission its creator had given it.  To retrieve a hair from the gigantic white beast. 

The gigantic sword swung down, ripping the others limb from limb, shredding their thin bodies.  Still, it ran on.  The mission must be accomplished.  At all costs. 

More fell, unmercifully trod upon and grounded, never to rise.  Some were blown away, while another was stalked in a heartless game of cat and mouse.  If it had been human, it would have cried out in protest. 

As it was not, it merely pushed onward. 

The target was reached, and in that now it was filled with a sense of purpose borrowed from its creator. 

Then, something amazing happened.  Something fortuitous.  Something. . . It didn't have the words to describe the happening.  Yet still. . . 

Among the murder and mayhem there lay a hair. 

One silvered-white thread on the green grasses. 

One mission partially accomplished. 

It used fingerless hands to grasp the prize, the white hair that so many of the others had been obliterated for.  It had found its creators query. 

Now it had to make it back alive. 

Stubby legs carried it over the battlefield as there was a collective retreat.  The others, those that remained, joined in a mob around it to form a moving shield.  It had special purpose to fulfill. 

The fellow in missions was there as well, an ebony tress coiled in triumphant arms.  They had succeeded.  Their creators would be pleased. 

The hive mind rumbled with pleasure. 

The journey back to their creators where they waited on the rocks took many now's, but the enthusiasm was fresh throughout.  A few more of the others were lost before it and the fellow reached their creators.  The creators extended it warmth thoughts, as one took hold of it.  Pleasure was evident as the creator it was on took hold of its prize – the single

silver hair. 

And it knew it had done well. 

--- 

See?  Pointless, and prolly confuzzling.    How cheesily great.  Too bad

all the 'protagonist' is called is 'it'.  Reminds me of a certain cousin

of a certain Adams Family. . . 

I go work on other writings now. 

Laters! 

C.F. Phoenix


End file.
